


Epistemology

by Solarcat



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-21
Updated: 2008-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarcat/pseuds/Solarcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur knows, and Merlin knows he knows, and Arthur knows that Merlin knows that he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epistemology

**Author's Note:**

> Nominated for Best One Shot, Merlin/Arthur Fic Awards 2008.

Arthur knows, and Merlin knows he knows, and Arthur knows that Merlin knows that he knows. It gets a bit confusing after that, but the important thing is that Gaius doesn't know that Arthur knows, and that Uther will never know about any of it at all.

:::

_The manticore is dead on the ground. Its too-human face is something from a nightmare; eyes still half open and tongue lolling out onto the ground, a faint streak of blood at the corner of its lips. The deadly scorpion tail lies on the other side of the small clearing, severed neatly by Arthur's magically-reinforced blade. Arthur is leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. Merlin fears what he'll see in Arthur's eyes when he looks up, but then he does and it's nothing at all like what Merlin was expecting but it's _good_. He thinks his wrist might be broken—it's at least badly sprained—but he doesn't really care about that, or about the dark, inhuman blood staining Arthur's armor that's now surely staining his tunic as well, or about anything. Nothing else matters, because Arthur's got his back pressed up against the rough bark of a tree and he's kissing Merlin on the mouth, again and again and again, and all Merlin can think is_ finally, _and all he can do his kiss him back._

:::

Gaius thinks he goes off to visit Gwen, on those nights he doesn't come back to his room until it's very late, or at all. He gives Merlin those little knowing looks, as if to say, _I've figured you out, boy, don't think you've got me fooled_. Merlin doesn't. He _knows_ they have Gaius fooled, because Gaius only gives him that look when Gwen's just been by to visit. When Arthur demands his presence, Gaius still gives him the _I know you don't want to, but you must_ look. Merlin thinks that perhaps Gaius should reverse the two. He loves Gwen, but not _like that_ and it's becoming harder to weather the looks and the comments and the way Gwen sometimes, only sometimes, looks at him like she might want to prove the gossips right. And when Arthur calls, it's all Merlin can do to school his features into neutrality, to mask the way his skin tingles and his heart races and the way he feels like he could fly without using any magic at all.

Merlin is older and wiser now than he was when he first arrived at Camelot, and he thinks that Gaius is perhaps not as brilliant as Merlin had always assumed him to be, if he can't see the way that Merlin is glowing inside.

:::

There are no protective enchantments on Arthur's armor. Merlin won't risk him like that, so stupidly; there's too much of a chance that someone—_Uther_—will notice, and neither of them hold any illusions that Uther's son would be exempt from his wrath. There are no enchantments, so Merlin is sure to keep every piece in perfect condition, to check every buckle three times, to mend frayed leather straps and bent links of chainmail before they come even to Arthur's attention.

Arthur's armor is the envy of every knight in the kingdom, in the surrounding kingdoms. Arthur likes it best when it's being removed, piece by piece; Merlin's strong, sure fingers gliding over metal and leather and cloth and skin, the armor forgotten on the floor.

:::

The dragon is as cryptic as he always is, but Merlin gets the feeling he's being laughed at. He probably deserves it, asking a question like that.

:::

Arthur's teeth are digging lightly into his shoulder, his cock thick and heavy and sliding between Merlin's thighs, the head of it nudging against his balls with every languid thrust. Merlin sighs and rolls his head back so Arthur can nibble along the line of his throat, kiss his jaw, his lips. He can feel the magic rippling around him, tingling just below the surface of his skin, and every once in a while Arthur shivers and Merlin knows he feels it, too. He's gotten so much stronger since they met, since his gift—since _he_—found a purpose, and the magic is welling up inside him, eager to escape. He is full to bursting, his fingers crackling with it, and it's harder to control every day. Arthur's hand moves over the ridge of his hipbone, soothing the riot of power to a dull roar, like the sound of the sea from atop a cliff; then Arthur's hand, hot and sword-callused and familiar, is wrapping around him, stroking him, and Arthur is kissing the nape of his neck and whispering to him, and the waves rise up and crash over both of them.

They are sweaty and sticky and laughing and in love, and Merlin can see the two of them—not much older at all—standing together, the magic no longer hidden, the kingdom at peace.

Arthur used to whisper, _Someday_. Now he whispers, _Soon_, and Merlin knows it's true.

Very soon.


End file.
